


Dove

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-10 07:17:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12906909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Eönwë never felt anything to forgive.





	Dove

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Solarfox123](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solarfox123/gifts).



> A/N: Gift for auniverseforgotten, who donated to ASAN (Autistic Self Advocacy Network) for my [karma commissions drive](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/167176922380/karma-commissions) and requested “Maglor/Eonwe”.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

His feet are heavy as they should never be, though it strikes him suddenly, curiously, that it’s been so for a long, long time. Once, he could float about this palace, hovering just above the earth, his wings always with him, even in his Elven form. But now he drags with every step, his boots heavy on the tile, and the sound echoes jarringly through the tall corridors of Manwë’s halls. Eönwë drudges into the audience chamber, those unfurled feathers draped low across the ground, snagging on the ends of his greying robes. He comes before his master’s throne and bows, all grace gone from the action. 

Manwë sighs. It’s a brisk wind that rustles past him, Manwë’s form more Eagle than Elf. He deals with the Eldar rarely; that’s what he has Eönwë for, so his skin is all his own. Eönwë is only a messenger, like the pigeons elves often use to send word to one another. He keeps his head low as Manwë’s voice whisks all around him: “ _You are in decline, my Maia._ ”

Inside, Eönwë winces. But his face has yet to learn such movements—he’s lost touch with this body. He whispers only, “I apologize.” He would promise to do _better_ , but that would require knowledge he doesn’t have. Manwë’s silence is thick throughout the enormous hall.

Then, gentler, more familiar than the boom of orders, Manwë asks, “ _What is wrong?_ ”

Eönwë tries to answer. He always does; he’s never denied his Vala anything, word or deed. But his mouth opens, and there’s nothing to come out. He thinks on it, trying to pinpoint the weight that seeps inside him, the sorrow that permeates his aching bones. It’s some time before he manages to say, diplomatic but emphatic, “I fear the splendor of Valinor, though it is still a paradise in which I am honoured to serve, is nonetheless diminished for the loss of all its song.” He says no more: it’s not his place to give specifics.

But Manwë is all knowing, and he deduces aloud, “ _You pine for one of the firstborn, one who has defied us and is banished from our shores._ ”

Eönwë nods his head. It’s easier than speaking. But he looks up through his fringe, because light’s crept into his vision, and it lets him see the wind that coalesces over Manwë’s lap. Through Manwë’s palms, the air twists itself, growing substance and colour, twisting out like a growing vine. Eönwë watches, enraptured, as a harp is born, one beyond the craft of any elf, silver-white and beautiful. When Manwë gestures it forward, it drifts across the open space. Eönwë has to straighten from his bow in order to hold it in his hands. 

He asks, awed and lost, “What is this?”

“ _A lure_ ,” Manwë tells him, “ _to bring our lost child home._ ”

Eönwë has no words. He brings the harp against his chest, _feeling_ all the majestic angles and artful curves. It fills him with hope again—there’s only one being Manwë can mean, one that Eönwë’s thought about since Fëanáro first defied their laws. He knows that that line has reaped only what they sowed, but one has suffered longer than all the others, and yet never belonged on Middle Earth’s harsher shores. Eönwë bows again, making his promise to obey, and then he sweeps away, Manwë’s gift held tightly in his arms.

* * *

Middle Earth is vast, many times the size of Valinor, and harbours all manner of creatures. Eönwë searches long and hard, drawn only by his feelings, of which there’s little left. He remembers well a time when he would always know _exactly_ where Kanafinwë stood, and he could be there in mere moments. The sound of Kanafinwë’s voice, the scent of Kanafinwë’s skin, would tug him from afar. Now, it’s only a thin string, a barely-there tether that he follows nonetheless. He searches everywhere, north and south, but doesn’t stray far from the western shore. The waters taste of Yavanna’s light, and he knows just what’s befallen them. 

Eventually, when he’s grown weary of the world and near collapse himself, he finds the crumpled form of an elf strewn out along the beach. Eönwë runs through the low tide, his footsteps swept away in his wake. He recognizes the black hair muddied with the sand, and the tattered robes that cling to the beaten form are reminiscent of the Noldor’s ancient hand. When Eönwë reaches the fallen figure, he recognizes the gentle face that’s closed itself off to the world. Kanafinwë is sleeping, or something worse. Eönwë descends over him, shaking and _terrified_ as no Maia should ever be. But Kanafinwë’s chest still beats, if shallowly, and his parted lips breathe in. His body is bruised, but there are no signs of struggle—no jagged swords or rotting beasts. When Eönwë touches Kanafinwë’s cheek, it’s cold. 

He scoops Kanafinwë up into his arms. He cocoons himself around the body of his songbird, and he pleads in Kanafinwë’s ear: _“Not yet.”_

* * *

He finds a little cottage just up the sloping hills, the wooden beams splashed with rain and bitter to the coastline breeze. It’s abandoned, left in shambles, and stray animals scurry out as Eönwë wades across the creaking boards. Swallows flutter down from the rafters. Eönwë finds a ragged cot, and he sets Kanafinwë down across the worn-out mattress. He longs for the glory of their homes: beds of fine silk and soft feathers and sheets of spun gold. Such things have never mattered much to him, to his borrowed form with which he rarely sleeps, but for Kanafinwë, he wants the world. 

He rearranges Kanafinwë’s hair and finger-combs the sand away. He rubs Kanafinwë’s long fingers until they’re no longer frozen, and he blows the moisture out of Kanafinwë’s robes with a whisper of his power. He would trade that all now, he thinks, if only he could know how to sustain the firstborn as they need—how to make their food, how to tend their beds, how they distill their water. But he doesn’t know, so he only sits at Kanafinwë’s side, waiting and willing Kanafinwë not to leave him. 

He holds Kanafinwë’s hand, and he wills all he is into the fire of Kanafinwë’s being. The world has lost too many elves. He has Manwë’s orders to serve, but he has his own wants as well. Of all the firstborn that have gone, _this one_ can’t. Eönwë won’t let him fade. Eönwë breathes life into Kanafinwë’s body, until Kanafinwë’s eyes finally flutter open, just halfway and slow, but the dark orbs inside seem to shine brighter than Varda’s stars. 

He looks at Eönwë for a long time before speaking. Eönwë squeezes his hand, and then Kanafinwë croaks, in a voice worn down by age and grief, “I must be dreaming.”

“You are not,” Eönwë promises, for surely Kanafinwë would have greater dreams than this—full and beautiful, just as his songs have always been. For all the destruction the Noldor wrought, Eönwë knows well how capable they are of creating wondrous things. He clasps his other hand around the back of Kanafinwë’s, and Kanafinwë’s gaze flickers down towards them. Maiar don’t dream, not the way the firstborn speak of it, but if they did, this is the sort of scene that would be in Eönwë’s, only Kanafinwë would be well and whole. Eönwë tells him, “I have come to bring you home.”

In his mind, it would be a joyous moment. So it would be in his dreams, and all the thoughts he’s entertained before coming here. When he looks at Kanafinwë, his heart is filled with pity and regret that he didn’t come ages ago. But he’s still happy, hopeful, and he thinks Kanafinwë should rejoice.

Kanafinwë’s brows knit together. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out, and then he slips his palm out of Eönwë’s hands.

He turns, awkward and stiff, onto his side, facing away. His rounded shoulder hunches with him, his body curling as though in defense or cold. He murmurs, “I cannot go.”

Eönwë is so struck by surprise that it takes him a moment to ask, “Why?”

“I have failed you, and all of Valinor. And my father. I live my penance here and will do so until Mandos takes me, but I will not soil Valinor with my presence or burden you anew. Let me fade.”

Again, there’s silence in the cottage. No birds sing beyond the windows, and the sea is too far away. Eönwë has no words to describe his distress. He wants to wail the way the firstborn do when they’ve lost something dear to them, but his throat won’t make the sound, and he’s embodied his own wail for too long now—he recognizes why he was in decline. His hands itch to _touch_ Kanafinwë again, to bring Kanafinwë back to face him.

To Kanafinwë’s back, he whispers, “Is that why you did not return? You did not think yourself worthy.”

“I am beneath that,” Kanafinwë chokes, and though Eönwë can’t see his face any longer, the pain is palpable enough in his cracking tone. His body trembles, subtly, at first, then greater, until it’s heaving with unshed tears, and Eönwë can’t withhold himself—he sets his hand on Kanafinwë’s shoulder.

He gently turns Kanafinwë back to him. Kanafinwë looks up at him through sparkling eyes, and Eönwë can see the shame and grief of _years on years_ inside them. It’s difficult to watch. But Eönwë tells him, “All is forgiven.”

Kanafinwë shuts his eyes. It’s as though he can’t believe it, or won’t. That’s when Eönwë lifts the harp from its resting place against the legs of his chair. He sets it in his lap but doesn’t know how to strum the strings. He never learned. He always thought that time was endless, and Kanafinwë could teach him at some point in the future. When Kanafinwë’s eyes open again, they widen at the harp. He always understood fine craftsmanship—he’ll know just how special this instrument truly is.

He asks, as reverent as Eönwë was, “What is it?”

“A present,” Eönwë whispers, passing it forward into Kanafinwë’s shaking hands. “It was made by Manwë in the hall of his throne, for you will need it on your return. Valinor is lessened by its loss of your song, and we would have you play again.”

Kanafinwë is quiet. Then he slowly pushes up in bed, and Eönwë helps, until he’s settled against the headboard. The harp seems to give him strength—when he looks at it, the colour seeps back into his face, and yet he still won’t smile. 

Instead, he drops it to the mattress, and he turns into Eönwë’s arms, burrowing and crying into Eönwë’s shoulder. Eönwë strokes his back and waits.

* * *

Valinor is as it was in the times of old, gorgeous and boundless, and Eönwë’s steps are light again. _Time_ is still a factor, for elves fade over it, and so they come back, not at all once but in little steps. Eönwë eagerly awaits every one. He’s summoned to Manwë again, given entirely new orders, but he still has time to give thanks for the instrument that his ward treasures so dearly. Manwë asks why he hasn’t yet heard its song, and Eönwë answers with a hopeful: “Soon.”

Eönwë returns to his estate with his wings unfurled. But he pauses halfway through it, because notes draw him to the guest room’s balcony.

He looks up to see his songbird, out upon a bench, strumming at the harp and singing softly. It’s the first time Eönwë’s seen Kanafinwë out of bed long enough to do so since their return, and that warms Eönwë as much as the music. Not all the pain is gone from Kanafinwë’s voice, but enough of it has faded, and Eönwë thinks, seeing him silhouetted in the brilliant light of Arien, that he might actually be _happy_.

Glad, Eönwë finally smiles.


End file.
